


Warrior's Flowers

by Bazooka_Universe



Category: Avengers (Comics), Marvel, Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Biology, Alien Flora & Fauna, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Character Study, F/M, Falling In Love, Fights, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, How Do I Tag, Love/Hate, Off-World, Original Setting(s), Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pseudoscience, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Violence, Weird Biology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-07-16 00:16:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16074386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bazooka_Universe/pseuds/Bazooka_Universe
Summary: A story of how you acquire a long sought after dream, and how you realize the danger of it.





	1. Day of the Amber Sky

**Author's Note:**

> [I AM NOT BAZOOKA_UNIVERSE: Bazooka_Universe and I very close friends off the screen. Because I don't have an Ao3 acc., nor was I willing to make one, Bazooka was very kind to let me use her account as a vessel to put my work on (thank you sm bb you are a v good boi)
> 
> So this idea was a jump from nowhere. I’m not really into reader inserts, nor writing them. Basically, I stumbled across a few Thanos/Readers with a couple friends as a joke, we started cracking more jokes, then genuine ideas began to bloom, and I scribbled some fleeting thoughts into a story. I’ll let you know now that I may or may not finish this fic, because I’ve got a busy life and my passion for stories sputter out pretty quickly. But I hope you enjoy it, you old raisin lovers. Let me know your thoughts in the comments, I love story discussions.  
> (Original settings and characters are my own. Marvel owns the rest.)
> 
> P.S.
> 
> A forewarning: I plan on this story being plot intensive. I’m iffy on smut, so depending on how much attention the story gets I may not include it. Tags will be added as the story develops.

_‘What is this place?’ Silver and ivory, the definition of a heaven among a multitude peoples. Ascent and beauty, a loftiness so unusual he wondered why it never crossed his sight. The few who felt chills at the ethereal glow never returned from their voyage to catch a glimpse of it: the ghostly globe without a galaxy. His curiosity mounted as his blood chilled, caught in a thick suspense for something to happen as he watched._

_‘Nobody knows the name or the people. Nobody has been able to get that close, but-’ A slow, heavy swallow. A twitch at the corner of the mouth. The thrumming beat of the ship engulfed them for a moment, and the black maw of space seemed to flood the bridge, the air, the everything. ‘It seems to be revered as a planet of gods.’_

_‘Revered by whom? What gods? You said knowledge is scarce.’ It made sense. The white glow was unique, and it vexed him to no end. Obstacles were a certainty, and he was more than prepared, but this was a blot in a finely constructed prediction. The gap was sharply despised but not unwelcome. He was flexible; he could adjust._

_‘Planets who know its existence, they...fear it. Some have built cultures, religions around its anonymity.’ Another pause as some sort of conclusion was waited on. ‘I-I have scripts from these peoples if you would like to-’_

_‘Shut up.’ If he was going to modify, there was no time like the present. Where there is a malfunction in a system, there is a way to dispose of it. A deep sigh released fuming displeasure, and critical thinking took its place. After all, he was practical, his stratagem malleable; he could adjust._

_He would succeed._

 

***

 

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

Not for another several million years.

The Day of Rebirth had been marvelous -- Zhularia had begun its decennial metamorphosis; the entire planet would regenerate droves of flora and fauna, the most spectacular botanical display in the entire universe. You knew this for a fact, because out of the numerous galaxies your xeno-biologists had studied, _were_ studying, nothing could come close to the verdure that rose around the silver and ivory skyscrapers.

You were invited to several events that took place in the Capital, and instead of riveting nerves you found yourself swathed with insurmountable joy: your people shouting hymns whether or not they could sing, a sticky film of sweat from dancing and games, overwhelming scents of food and perfume; you were so drunk with delight your duties were lost on you, and the thought that nothing could go wrong sealed your anxieties away.

Then you were pulled aside from the festivities. One of the royal guard had retrieved you.

“Guardian y/n. The King summons you. An emergency.” The look on her face was grim, her skin clammy and pallid as if she were ill. Still attached to the celebration, you merely furrowed your brows and followed the guard to a Transport Box. The guard punched in unrecognizable coordinates, coordinates kept from _you,_ the Guardian of Zhularia. You swiftly ignored the bothersome detail, steeling yourself for whatever scare that sickened the Guard that way.

Bright light pulsed from around the Box, and then a very dark room manifested around the two of you, lit only by numerous screens. Now truly alarmed, you took gentle steps toward the largest screen on set above many smaller monitors, which were manned by the most grim astrologists you had ever seen. There was a rendering of a white sphere that was pulsing like a fast beating heart, and as you watched, it gradually picked up speed with each second.

Warning was repeated like a panicked mantra from the monotone voice of an AI. The faint but acrid smell of vomit wafted across your nose, and cut away the seal that bound your anxieties.

You turned around, eyes widened ever so slightly. 

“What is this?” You tried to sound strong, you always did when in the presence of His Majesty, but the firmness of your voice quaked noticeably; an awkward ripple in the stillness of the room.

The King stepped toward you so that his handsome, weathered face shown in the blue light. Unlike the frail appearance of scientists and guard, he looked utterly defeated, and steadily relayed the tidings you were anxious to hear.

“Our sun is in the process of a supernova.” That was common knowledge. The supernova was to occur in some million years, a few seconds in celestial time -- long after your generation would pass. However the murk about you suggested it was much sooner.

“...When will it...happen?”

“Two hours.”

After the words had filled the silence everything had been a blur.

An hour and a half had been used to warn the world of imminent fatality. There was no time to escape, nothing to do but sit and let Lady Death swoop you all into her bosom.

And now you stand in the very center of the Capital, elevated above the King, above your people, a berth you are exceedingly unworthy of. The silent tears of women smear against stony faces of men. Some children are wailing at the sight of distressed mothers, others in confusion and wonderment at the ever reddening sky. 

In that moment, you have a selfish desire to be one of those children. One of the women clinging to her beloved, her family. Exaltation is worthless in comparison to the shapes of love.

Heat is rising, even more apparent with the bizarre orange sheen that douses a once bright society.

You squash that longing, as you have so many times before.

You failed your entire world. The gold pigment that separates you from the silver of your people means nothing. Your black and white robes are the same as those of the worst sinner in your doomed planet. The bright yellow belt, embroidered with battles and victories of your golden forefathers, the symbol of hope that secures balance is nothing more than a rustic artifact.

The copper tint hardens with each second, and appears almost matte. Viscous, suffocating, like a hellish vice. The stifling worries that plagued you day and night...you are slapped with stark realization that all of them have taken the form of an exploding star. You have failed to protect your people, you have failed to lead them to peace. You are the last Guardian of Zhularia and the only one unable to succeed in the mission placed on your shoulders at birth.

_Useless, worthless, failure, failure, FAILURE-_

You dig your nails into your palms until you can feel the grind of flesh against bone. Your heart aches and your eyes strain in a herculean effort to keep back tears. You may be nothing more than waste, but you still have a role to play. You still have a world to lead. You will try to fulfill your obligation, no matter if you were a mistake. 

You open your eyes to face your horrified people once again. What do you say to an entire race about to be wiped from existence?

“I know the anxiety we all feel right now. I know it intimately, like an old friend.” You feel stupid saying that. How does it comfort them to know that their protector is just as scared as they are? You will all be gone soon, anyway, so you take a breath and keep going.

“As your Guardian, I take full responsibility for the disaster at hand. I’ve let myself down, I’ve let the kingdom down, and I’ve let you all down. I failed my mission to protect Zhularia and it’s beauteous life; may my soul be damned for that.”

“But this is still the Day of Rebirth, the day of life to begin anew.” You step forward and open your arms, smiling with hard determination. It’s burning, now: your skin feels as if it is being charred. You notice parts of the crowd trying to shield themselves from the simmering heat.

“Are we not children of the stars? Did life not begin by erupting galaxies? Be proud of your celestial heritage,” you pound your chest as you shout. You notice backs begin to straighten, sobs reduced to sniffles.

_Good._

“This combustion is nothing more than our mother, the sun, taking us into her arms once again. Yes, today our lives will end, but we will be reborn as our planet has done so many decades past.” You notice hands begin to intertwine, and tears dry to tracks along faces. Melancholy, but staunch.

“I am afraid, just as you all are, but as proud Zhularian people we must be courageous!” You pound your chest again, and some others do the same, some voice their agreement. “Together, we will not pass as cowards; together, we will pass as a world that challenges fear, that welcomes our fate!”

“Let the supernova take us! The bold Zhularian spirit will be passed to a new line of people, born again in a glorious inferno!”

“Zhularia will live on!” The King echoed your cry, which triggered a typhoon of cheers across the crowd. Some still cried, but their tears were bittersweet. 

You hardly believe in any of the nonsense that you spouted, but the family that was your world had hope, and really, that is all that matters.

As the undulating amber sky drops quickly and strikingly close to the surface, you look up to it, its divine brightness, and wish you could have saved your world.

 

***

 

You jolt awake, gasping sharply.

You are in a hospital room; the technology is older than what you remember, perhaps by a couple of decades. Soft light from a sunrise drifts from a ceiling high window: beside it, a woman, belly swollen with child, sits on a bed. A pale green blanket is pulled over her thighs, and silver dusted hands rest in her lap. She looks toward the window.

“Where- who-” You debate on what to ask. Confusion makes your head spin and temples ache, so you stop talking and get up. You look through the window of a door. The hospital hallway is long and monotone, with people walking calmly back and forth, all dressed in white nurse garbs. All of them have their faces turned in some angle away from you.

As you reach for the door handle, the woman speaks.

“How much will you give?”

Her voice was warm, like a thick blanket to hold close in a cold room. Motherly.

How much will I...what?

“Excuse me?” You turn to the woman, who still faces the window.

“How much will you pay for the many?”

Suddenly memories strike you. Happiness, a dark omen, terrific amber shining on resolute faces. Then a large, bipedal creature, smiling over an ocean of sun-bleached skulls.

The image flashes back to the hospital room, and you fall back against the door, heaving as if you had taken a blow to the stomach. Zhularia, it was gone.

_I wish I wasn’t a failure._

_I wish I could save them._

_I wish I could save everyone._

“Everything,” you gasp out, looking at the woman. “I would give everything to save anyone.”

Quiet settles, and the woman brings her hands to her belly. 

“Your soul belongs to all life. Go, now, and serve your universe.”

 

***

 

The sun touches on emerald fields; it creates a pastel, saffron glow, riddled with glittering dew. The life of this remote planet responds to it; so gentle a sound is kind on his ears, tormented with barbarism endured to reach this point. Rest beckons, and a subtle, eased smile blooms on his face; his mission is finished, and now he can join his daughter in blissful eternity.

As his eyes begin to close, he sees a figure rise over the crest of the hill. He watches despite exhaustion tugging at his eyelids, a final spark of curiosity to see the effects of his work. As the image grows he notices that it’s a hominid woman, and as she warily closes the distance between them, he notices that she isn’t Terran.

She has wild hair, and eyes that hold so much grief. If she didn’t shimmer like gold dust she would have dimmed the sunrise.

Instead of making a summary of her character, he merely appreciates her somber beauty, a welcome addition to the sunrise. She, in the meantime, analyzes him like he would have done, were he not dying and satisfied -- she must be a warrior. A dark line forms mid brow as sharp eyes flick about what’s in front of her, gathering data to make an appropriate response.

“Who are you?” Her voice has a rasp to it, as if she had just woken up from a long slumber. So she knows All-Speak. She must hold some significance if she knows the language. He wonders what conclusion she came to, then decides it doesn’t matter.

“A visitor,” he says softly. He pauses, then moves his hand to the space beside him. Her eyes are drawn to the beaten gauntlet, and the furrow grows deeper. “Won’t you sit? The sunrise is beautiful.” She stares at his face, then his hand, and lets out a resigned sigh. He withdraws it when she moves to sit with him.

Together, one in contentment and one in sorrow, they let peach light flow over them, searching for solace in the balmy embrace of the amber sky.


	2. A Gentle Simmer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So throughout I'll be taking elements from Marvel Comics and blending them with the MCU canon; I just like Thanos' character more in the MCU. Not a lot of Thiccy Thanos in this chap, but I promise we'll get to more of him later. Right now I'm just working on setting.

You feel as if you are stuck in a pit of sludge, mind in a thick haze with trauma and _too many emotions._ You glare at your feet as you walk up a trail through the terraces, grimacing at the phantom-like reflections of yourself trudging past. Most would consider it a blessing, surviving a disaster of epic proportions. You thought it a curse; the sole member of an extinct race, a culture vanished.

_‘Your soul belongs to all life. Go, now, and serve your universe.’_

Bright yellow shines on you as the hill’s apex gets closer, and determination rises in your chest. Redemption has been granted so that you may serve justice to your people. This is the only gift presented to your damned life, and you will take it and savor to its end. 

When you see the man, the first thought is that has size doesn’t correlate to that of the hut you woke up in. He’s _huge,_ thrice your height and breadth -- it’s intimidating. Then his clothes; a gorgeous gold and purple tunic, far too sophisticated for the architecture of this place. He is a foreigner, like you. 

He offers you a seat, and you become alert at the sight of the gauntlet. It looks as if it had suffered the brunt of an explosion, burnt and melted in some parts. His arm is charred. He isn’t just an off-world visitor, he’s probably seeking refuge from a fight. How strange that he looks so at ease.

Despite the baritone roughness, his voice is close to _hypnotizing,_ and calm washes over you; his battle-worn face is made pink by the morning. 

It’s then that you notice, despite his blocky figure, the subdued lilac that makes him up is _lovely, engaging._ He reminds you of a certain flower from Zhularia.

The passive hostility that holds you is for the most part is dissipated, and despite the stinging caution in your gut, you find yourself sitting on the porch next to him.

The sunrise is beautiful, like he said, and you wonder how something so sublime can unleash such horrid power. You feel pang of nausea at the sight, and avert your eyes so as to avoid a mess. As you look elsewhere, you spot violet fluid on the arm wrapped around his waist, streaming through his fingers, down his waist and onto the bench. 

“Oh - you’re hurt!” You gasp, standing up. Urgency strikes you and you become aware of his vitals: his eyes are drooping, his breathing is astonishingly slow. He doesn’t respond to your exclamation, so you take matters into your own hands.

You waste no time lifting him, awkwardly, with how large he is compared to you. You haul his body over your shoulders and shiver as lukewarm blood smears onto your hair and back -- suddenly you’re eager to get him off of you. Then it’s a sprint downhill and into the humid shelter; right after you lay him out on the too-small threadbare cot, you start to panic.

Gripping your hair and pacing rapidly, you sift through the knowledge of intergalactic species, but dread sinks its tendrils into every thought that crosses your mind. 

_Hemerythrin_

It hits your burning skin like a spray of cool water -- the chemical that distinguishes purple-blooded animals. Immediately a train of instructions follow:

_‘Minerals and decayed organic matter boost hemostasis and angiogenesis when consumed.’ the Guide, X Shi, explained. You tapped a finger obnoxiously against the padd on your desk. Since you were Zhularia’s Guardian, it was tradition that you were to choose your own Three Guides; Guide for Knowledge, Guide for Wisdom, and your favorite, Guide for Combat._

_X Shi was your Guide for Knowledge, whom you chose because she was well versed in all educational topics; also, you just happened to click well with her. In the moment at hand, though, you reconsidered your decision._

_Normally, you and X Shi would engage in frivolous debate over topics such as whether or not a chimera of livestock and Zhularian could beat a Zhularian riding livestock. Today, however, Mazh Kahts, your Guide for Combat, would allow you to choose your martial art style and weapon. And X Shi wouldn't stop_ talking.

_“And because purple-blooded mammals cannot hold onto air as well as we can, they have been able to evolve to consume these extremely basic mediums -- silt mixtures, for example -- and through a series of metabolic reactions, achieve healing effects of acute potency, where we must use lab formulated products to do so.” X Shi inhaled loudly, and before she continued, you spoke to cut her off._

_“It’s past midday already, can’t we just pick this up again tomorrow?” You exclaim, tilting your head at an exaggerated angle._

_“What is the defining trait of a purple-blooded organism?”_

_“Um...he...hermaphrodite?” You knew it was wrong but you wanted to say something to her._

_“Hemerythrin.” X Shi sniffs and turns around with her lanky arms behind her back, with her stupid sapphire lab coat. You hated it because it always fanned into wings when she did her theatrical spins, and it was so_ fucking _irritating. “If you can answer that without hesitation, I’ll consider letting you leave the next lecture early.”_

_“Really?”_

_“No.” You groaned and dropped your forehead onto your padd with a thud, only to get swatted by a testy X Shi._

You huff, nerves abruptly diminishing with a newfound confidence. Who knew you’d end up missing your least favorite Guide. You shake your head before your eyes start to ache and put the recovered knowledge to use. 

There’s a wash bin beside the bed that is filled with water and a couple of rags. There’s no way of telling how pure it is, but what matters most is that it exists, so you wipe away the mess of blood with one and clear a path so you can better see the wound.

It’s ugly, and you hiss when you see a few punctured, beating organs, more plum fluid gushing out, a gruesome unending stream. Wincing, you use the other clean cloth to cover it, to try to cramp the blood flow. Though you’re thankful for the tools at hand, you can’t help but shiver at how crude they are. 

_Purple blood._

Outside the hut lay rich soil and decaying plant matter; lucky enough, there are boulders scattered about as well. You break off a piece the biggest one with a single hand, and gather the rest of the products. Together in your arms you bring them back to the wash bin and crumble them into a filthy, brown-grey soup. You look at the man while dragging the small tub over to the cot.  
For a moment you hesitate, breath caught in your throat. You’ve never seen anyone in such peace, the age of a war ridden face smoothed over relaxed lavender. A thought passes that maybe rescuing him would be an intrusion. Unconsciously, your palm rises up to touch his cheek, as if under a spell. Your hand tingles when you make contact - his skin is so soft despite the rough appearance.

“Like petals,” you whisper.

His cool temperature shocks you out of your trance, and you skittishly lift the bin to his lips, sloshing some of the mixture onto your thigh in the process. You pull his jaw down so is mouth is ajar, and gently pour so that it slips down his throat. You’re briefly glad that he is unconscious; it must taste awful.

When the bin is empty you cast it aside impatiently to look at the wound, anxious to see if X Shi’s teachings bore any fruit. You let out a breathy laugh.

The grazes on his internal organs had disappeared, and the blood clotted. Burned arm now crosshatched with shiny scar tissue. Incredible progress in a matter of minutes. The calm thrum of his breathing compels you to sit back on your feet, and watch his broad chest slowly rise and fall. How amazing that a creature that large can consume sludge and turn it into super healing medicine.

“You are something else, _Thagzho,_ ” you say with a light smirk. The title is fitting for now, since you don’t know his name. You saved him. You saved his life. You kneel over his rapidly healing figure and lay a hand on his forehead: This was a gesture passed down through the Guardians of Zhularia, a physical promise of protection and prosperity. An odd sensation makes you think this motion is too sacred for you to act on, but you don’t withdraw.

“I have to go explore this place a little bit. I’ll come back to you, don’t worry.” You pause, staring at your hand on his brightening skin. “You’ll be safe.” The words are more reassuring to you than the unconscious man, and you stand up, looking out toward the hut entrance. Saving one life proved you capable of your mission. Now you must carry it out. 

_‘Your soul belongs to all life.’_

You march out of the hut. The sun is higher in the sky, nearing midday. There is a path alongside the mountain of terraces, and you begin a brisk pace down into thin brush. The air is heating around you and you glare at your feet, hands curling into fists. You stray toward the shade as you walk, cast by trees with wispy currant leaves that flare out like smoke.

_Purple blood. Oozing. Jagged, squished abrasions. Pulsing organs, gushing more. Fighting._

A chilled breeze brushes makes your hair stand. Frost settles in your gut. Bile shoots up your throat and you stagger toward a tree, clasping a hand over your mouth. You swallow, then pause. Your stomach is still uneasy. Dragging a hand down your face, you continue down the path. The sun warms your scalp.

_Bubbling skin, melting, charring to black dust._

Your legs shake and you double over. Why is it so hard to breathe all of the sudden? The air is too hot, it’s strangling you. Too bright. You scratch at your arms, but you can’t feel it. Gold flies down like sawdust. Tears burn as they squeeze out of your eyes. You bend and bend until your knees crush your head. Your whimpers are more audible now. Too hot.

“I’m dying,” you cry, moving to tear at your neck.

_Be strong, be strong, you can’t, you’re weak…_

_Silver-lined hands claw at gold cloth. They’re ashen and fleshless._

“Please, please, stop it, make it stop…!” 

Something takes your bicep in a cold grip, and smacks your other arm from its havoc. Calloused hands move your arms to either side of you and pin them to the damp earth. A shadow moves in front of you but you don’t dare to find out its cause.

“ _Kupatnag, relax._ ” A commanding, feminine voice, and a language you don’t understand. The hands let go of your wrists and stroke your forearms lightly. “Relax.”

When you open your eyes the first thing that catches your attention is the eyes. Big and bulbous like a marine creature, brown and shining like tree sap on bark. It contrasts with fair, greenish-blue skin, pebbly as the path ahead; you can see your own yellow reflecting on lean cheeks. You flinch away and bring your hands to your chest. 

“Who-who-” Hyperventilation made your throat burn, but the speedy breathing hardly slows. The being takes notice and slowly places a hand on your chest, adding a light pressure. Lashless eyes blink and thin lips curve into a soft smile. Through the mugginess blocking coherence, you think the dimples are cute.

“How was your morning?” 

Your morning? 

What?

“I-It was kind of nice, among other things…” You find yourself answering, oddly enough. This person seems the only tangible thing you’ve interacted with in what feels like ages. It reminds you of an old Zhularian tale about an island and a maelstrom.

“Would you like to tell me about it?” You stare at the individual, trying to dissect the ‘who’ and ‘what,’ and sit up against a mound of some magenta vegetation. It’s plush and sinks like a proper mattress. Then you realize that you hadn’t spoken at all.

“You just-you can-” You run a hand through your hair and shake your head, trying to find the right word. “Are you a telepath?” Another warm smile, but this time it makes you apprehensive rather than comforted. You had run into some diplomatic issues in the past over telepathic races, though they were only security falters -- you hadn’t been mature enough to handle especially muddy intergalactic relations; that was left to the King. The being sits back on feet with only three toes, protected by worn reed sandals.

“Yes. May I keep reading you?”

“No.” You get up and brush off your rump, annoyed. You look past the crouched figure, now beginning to stand alongside you. You had walked enough that on the other side of the path the terraces had tapered off to vast field of spiral shaped flowers, organized into circles based on color; white, red, and teal. Even further is a grey clay hut, bigger than the one that protected Thagzho, and painted with murals you can't make out all the way. 

“Pretty, isn’t it?” The stranger says, setting calloused hands on narrow hips while you cross your arms. “I built all of that with some helpers. I wonder where they’re all off to now.”

“Who are you?” It comes differently than when you had asked Thagzho: harder, and more pointed. With Thagzho, you could vaguely identify his persona, some of his recent history -- with this person you can’t gauge much of anything. The character is dreamlike and real at once, and it throws you off dramatically. It gets on your nerves.

“I’m a farmer, and sometimes an artist. Sometimes a guide on those passing through, if they want help.” A gesture to the home beyond the field with chuckle like a chorus of bells. “Wife to none, mother to none, but a friend to all, or so I hope.” A woman, then. She looks at you, still grinning, but with a little twinkle in her eye. “I suppose I should be asking you, though. You aren’t from around here.”

“I’m a wanderer.” Lie. Even if you told the truth, she wouldn’t believe you. Because of the elusive nature of your planet there were no records of it anywhere in the universe, other than some myths or legends that alien nomads created to make up for loose knowledge.

Since the farmer had seen you in a state of extreme panic, you decide to expand the truth a bit. 

“My town suffered a fire, I got away, and woke up in a hut a ways back.” You point in the direction you came from, excluding the fact that Thagzho is unconscious in there, and _vulnerable._ You feel a sudden need to get back to him, but you don’t let it show. You aren’t sure if the woman is trustworthy, yet.

“Ah, you must have fainted on your escape, then,” she says with feigned intrigue. “I found you in a clearing full of fresh dirt. It was like the ground spit you up.” She tilts her head to the side, moving her arms behind her back. “I took you to the shed and you slept like a baby for a ten days. Now here you are.” Though the benign smile is still there, you know she’s testing you as you are her. Through your agitation you feel some respect for her.

“I guess I must have. What’s your name?” Your arms drop to your sides.

“Ida. Pleasure to meet you.” _Ida,_ the name echoed about some faint memories. You knew it, but you couldn’t place it. “And you?”

“(y/n). Thanks for saving me,” you pause. “Twice.” It brings another laugh out of Ida, but her eyes never leave you.

“May I ask why you we-”

“No.” If you were to explain you were going to start another panic. The memories that begin to fizzle up again are forced to subside. The exchange ends on an abrupt and coarse note, and the two of you size each other up.

The grin suddenly disappears from Ida’s face as she pulls a charcoal grey sword from her back. You drop into a defensive stance and raise an arm above your head and one to cover your abdomen. You grit your teeth in frustration at your own lack of a weapon.

“How do you know All-speak? Are you Asgardian?” She shouts as you two begin to circle each other. So Ida knows about other species in the universe. That made almost no sense, considering how elementary the planet appeared. You had no time to dwell on it, however, because Ida was steadily raising her sword.

“My people are nothing like those conquerors.” You choke back frustrated Zhularian pride with your tongue. If she doesn’t know about your race it will stay that way. “How do you know about alien races? How much do you know?”

Silence, but a snarl escapes her mouth as her lips curl back to reveal sharp teeth. “I’ve met enough supernatural beings to know what you’re here for. I say go back to your _burned_ village and never return here _again._ ”

Something boiling shoots into your veins and fires up your muscles, and everything turns red.

**Author's Note:**

> Because of how I structured this story, I understand that you may be confused about your homeworld. What I’m trying to do is set up a skeleton to fill in throughout, but if you want some early explanations on some stuff (ex. The gold & silver skin), feel free to PM and I’ll explain.


End file.
